


Swimming In A Fishbowl

by treefrogie84



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergent After 12.23 All Along The Watchtower, Depressed Crowley, Depressed Dean, Eldritch Bunker - Freeform, Grieving Dean, M/M, Special Guest Appearances - Freeform, The Walmart in the Empty, Walmart E, poly solves everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: The empty isn’t the quiet oblivion they were promised. Instead, it’s tedious work either walking through an endless parking lot or stocking shelves that are never full. Crowley knows Dean will never allow Castiel to stay dead. Castiel knows Crowley will die, again, if he moves to the Walgreens. Dean knows they’re both dead and nothing will ever bring them back.They’re all wrong.





	Swimming In A Fishbowl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThayerKerbasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/gifts), [Hekate1308](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/gifts).



> Special thanks go to [Scout](http://consulting-cannibal.tumblr.com/) for letting me borrow [Walmart E](http://consulting-cannibal.tumblr.com/tagged/the%20walmart%20that%20is%20the%20empty) and to [Ry](https://trisscar368.tumblr.com/) for Eldritch Bunker.

He doesn’t expect to be anywhere at all. There’s never been anything that’s come back from second death, certainly no demons. Just tales of oblivion. It’d actually sounded okay, towards the end.

The parking lot is completely empty, black pavement with stark white lines stretching to the horizons. Oblivion looks an awful lot like a Walmart parking lot. Which means this isn’t it. Wherever he is, it’s not where he expected.

Back to work then, saving Squirrel from himself. Snapping his fingers, Crowley tries to teleport to Dean’s side.

Nothing happens.

There must be something then that blocks teleportation. He can defeat that, given enough time. Or he can walk around it. Rolling his eyes, he picks a direction and trudges off.

Hours later (he thinks, the light never changes and it’s impossible to tell), the only thing that’s changed is the number and position of the light poles and how sore his feet are.

He has feet, that can be sore. That hasn’t been true in centuries. Which means this is yet another bloody dimension. Briefly, he wonders if he can expect another miraculous Winchester-shaped save before snorting. The only one who’ll even look is Dean and he’s not going to lay bets on that one.

Not with Feathers and Moose probably rejoicing.

He sags against the nearest light for a moment, sighs, and brushes himself off. His fingers catch on the hole in his jacket, dancing away from the stiff fabric surrounding it. His mind dances away from it too, deliberately looking for any distraction.

There isn’t one, of course; his life, afterlife, what-have-you, has never been that lucky.

Picking himself up, he keeps walking.

* * *

 

The door slides open. “Welcome to Walmart,” he starts dutifully before looking up from where he’s restocking the display.

Gabriel smiles brightly before waving him off, “Just me, Cassie.”

Sinking back down, Castiel pulls the box of shampoo closer. “Oh.”

“I don’t know why you’re so disappointed. _It’s the Empty_. I’m always going to be the most interesting being to come in.”

“The prospect fills me with joy.” Castiel snarks back. “This is--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. There’s no point. “Raphael was looking for you. And that woman -- the artist -- is asleep by the registers again.”

Gabriel’s face lights up and he rushes towards the registers, a pallet of Pepsi Max suddenly trailing behind him. “Scout!”

Castiel raises an eyebrow before turning back to his assigned task. He finishes the current box and pushes to his feet -- trying to decide between finding the next box or hunting down Daniel and his ever-present joint -- when the doors slide open again. “Hi, welcome to Walmart. Can I help you find anything today?”

The man looks exhausted, pushed to his limits. A torn suit hangs off his frame, like he lost a massive amount of weight in a very short period of time. A shock of auburn hair flops lazily across his pale and dirty face. He looks oddly familiar, but Castiel cannot place him-- he’s not any angel that works here, and there’s no reason for anyone not an angel to be here.

(Except for Scout, but she’s some sort of prophet and/or one of Chuck’s favorites and gets special privileges.)

He looks closer at the man, who appears to be staring at him just as carefully. Oh, he’s a demon that got lost. That’s easy enough to fix. “Demons work at the Walgreens across the street.”

“Sending me to my death again, Cas? How angelic.”

“Crowley?” Castiel looks deeper. It’s not the physical form he’s accustomed to, but the inner self--

“In the flesh, darling. Now, how about calling in Things One and Two and getting us out of here.”

Castiel snorts, dropping the empty box. “Not in the flesh, not your darling, and not getting out of here.” Fuck finding Daniel. He conjures a joint before heading towards the doors so he can light up.

“What are you--” Crowley snatches the joint from his hand. “Are you high?”

“Not yet.” He pushes Crowley back outside. “Get out of here, demons work at the Walgreens like I said, and I’ve still got work to do.”

 

* * *

 

He resolutely marches away, back straight. Screw Castiel and the stick up his ass anyway.

Rounding the corner of the building, he’s faced with another endless parking lot. The prospect of walking another eternity sounds only slightly more appealing than death.

His fingers catch on the gaping hole in his jacket again. Carefully, he shrugs off the jacket so he can take a closer look. Waggling two fingers through the tear, with room for a third, makes him slightly nauseated. He can mend it, of course, tiny invisible stitches to close over the gap. If he does it right, no one will be able to tell.

(The suit’s Armani, unless he uses a spell, it’s completely ruined.)

Habit takes over anyway, folding the jacket so the tear is on the inside, and carrying it over an arm. It’s only then that Crowley notices what probably should have been obvious for a while. He’s no longer in John Keller’s comfortable body, worn without thought for decades now.

He holds his hands out in front of him, counts the pockmarks and scars, and silently reaches up to pull a lock of hair down where he can see it.

To hell with this place. If his second death is going to shove him, willy-nilly, into whatever he was born as, he’ll go find a third death. And a fourth. And however many it takes to finally reach oblivion.

He’s _Crowley_ , dammit, King of Hell. Or former, anyway.

Turning back towards the front of the building, he gathers his resolve. He can see the Walgreens from here, red logo shining across the parking lot. He makes it all the way back to the corner before realizing that he has a much better option.

Let the black-eyed morons across the street function without him. They’ve never appreciated him, most of them would happily stick a knife in his back if given the opportunity.

He knows where to place his bets. The Winchesters will come for Castiel if nothing else.

Marching back inside, he’s greeted by an older angel, heavy set and balding, tugging awkwardly on his blue vest. “Welcome to Walm--” the angel cuts himself off. “Little toad. Did you get lost?”

“Where’s Castiel?”

The angel starts to puff up like a balloon. “Demons don’t work here.”

“You are absolutely correct.” Pushing past the angel, Crowley heads towards the back of the store.

He doesn’t make it very far. Four steps in, his stride abruptly changes, the slight limp that marred Fergus’ gait smooths out into the purposeful stride of a moderately successful literary agent. He stumbles slightly, there’s a moment of static, and--

He’s right back where he started. Endless parking lot, nothing else in sight.

 

* * *

 

When Dean can’t sleep, he walks the bunker. It’s not habit from when they were younger, but whatever the opposite of habit is. His body makes up for decades spent forcing himself to stay still, stay in the room, stay near Sammy.

Sometimes, he thinks the hallways move, turning back on themselves to redirect him away from some areas and towards others. Certainly he ends up in the kitchen far more often than he thinks he should.

It’s worse when he’s been drinking. When three AM sneaks up on him in the form of an empty bottle and a full bladder and he just wants...

He _wants_. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

Sam’s got the kid squared away upstairs, away from the storage rooms and dungeon, just a couple doors down from his room. Away from Dean. He and Jack are both avoiding him, bonding over shared grief and superpowers while Dean slowly walks the labyrinth, lost in grief.

Eventually, he always finds his way back to the dungeon, no matter how booze soaked he has become. Stumbling over his own feet, half-blind and dizzy, he collapses into the chair, leans against the table and just wants.

Seems stupid now, how much effort he’s put into fighting what he wants. Now that it doesn’t matter. He watched Crowley spark out, counted Cas’s feathers burned into the sand, gave up everything for them ( _for him_ ). They’re both gone onto whatever waits for demons and angels after their deaths.

They left him, or he got them killed, or they got each other killed, or… it all blurs together. He’d thought Pearl Jam would be less painful than Zepp. He was wrong. So now he’s a bottle of tequila in, hoping the bunker will do its trick.

Silently, he pours out his nightly measure for Cas, for Crowley before pushing himself to his feet and stumbling back towards his room.

 

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t even bother to show up to his next shift sober. Not when at any moment he might be assaulted by evidence of his failure (as if being here wasn’t enough).

He’d hoped that it’d been another trick of Crowley’s -- a trick of the light, killing his double, another demon in his meat suit -- but that was, undoubtedly, Crowley. In an unfamiliar body, one that didn’t suit him.

How could that be? Angels appear in whatever visage they’d spent the most time on earth in, but demons already have human forms- their original bodies. How could…

He sucks another hit off the joint, passes it back to Daniel, and heads towards the front of the store. It doesn’t matter, Crowley’s gone, and by this point, dead again.

The pang of sorrow that hits him comes out of the blue.

He shouldn’t mourn the demon’s death, natural enemies. Yet, Crowley had become a friend in his way, reliable assistance. Strange to realize only after their deaths that Crowley is possibly his best friend after Dean.

That realization means his shift drags. Filled with moments of realization that he fucked up, that Dean had been the only one to actually see, and even that through faulty lenses of his own experience.

Halfway through his shift, he realizes that he doesn’t care. He might be stuck here for all eternity, which fits, he’s been a terrible angel and a terrible friend and every resurrection has felt like a punishment. But Crowley, who’s only dead because he volunteered?

No.

Dropping the box of peanuts, he shrugs off his vest and hangs it off the metal detector. He looks over towards the registers, hoping that it’s someone who at least tolerates him. It’s not. “Muriel, can you let Raphael know that I’m leaving?”

She raises her eyebrow, but says nothing. She never has, still pissed at him for getting her killed, he supposes. He deserves it.

Marching out the door, there’s a brief moment when he sets foot on pavement, can see the Walgreens. The next step has him pushing through the swinging doors that separate the backroom from the sales floor.

He rushes to the front of the store, ignoring the angels that call out to him, the alarm that crosses their faces when he pushes past them. He gets two steps on free pavement before pushing through the doors this time.

Gabriel stops him before he can try a third time, grabbing him by the arm. “Woah, Cassie, where’s the rush?”

“I can’t,” Castiel answers breathlessly. “I can accept this for me, but he… I sent him to his death. If I can stop it…”

“You can’t,” Gabriel says flatly. “It’s the Empty. No one comes back from this. Not even your precious Dean.”

“Dean?” Castiel rears back,wrenching his arm from Gabriel’s grip. “What? No. He’s fine…” he trails off -- Dean is almost certainly _not_ fine but that is neither here nor there at the moment -- “Crowley, brother. I sent Crowley to his final death.”

Gabriel’s face goes stony. “Absolutely not. I might help you evade the rules to help Dean, I’ve got a soft spot for him, but a demon? No.”

“Gabriel--”

The goofy Pepsi delivery guy is gone, replaced by one of the Archangels of God. “No.” Lightning flashes and the ground shakes. “There’s a limit to what I will allow you to debase yourself to. Saving a _demon_? Well beyond it.”

Castiel blinks and he’s back to the front of the store, perfectly sober, wearing his vest again, a stack of boxes next to him.

 

* * *

 

Crowley’s worked himself into a truly foul mood by the time he reaches the front door of the Walmart again. He hurts in a way that he hasn’t since before his first death. He’d hoped that getting back into his rightful body would help. Instead, the aches have only moved slightly. Knees instead of his hip, ankles grinding with every step.

Castiel is at the door again, staring at a stack of boxes like they might have the answer.

“There you are, Feathers. I was wondering.”

Cas spins around, shock written over his face, “Crowley, you’re alive? But…” There’s a moment’s pause while his eyes go momentarily out of focus before he straightens. “And you’ve got your meat suit back?”

Self-consciously, Crowley reaches up to settle his jacket firmly on his shoulders. “Once a salesman, always a salesman.” He cuts himself off before he can go any further. It feels right to be back in Keller’s body, it fits better than Fergus ever did, but he’s well aware of the subconscious prejudice. He’s used it to his advantage, keep it long enough and everyone forgets that the meat suit isn’t _him_.

Now though, he’s not sure what it is.

“I’m glad.” Cas says quietly. “And I’m glad you’re here with me.” His eyes widen before Crowley can respond, grabbing hold of his arm and moving them _somewhere_.

It’s a small room, dark and filled with boxes. There’s room for the two of them, but not much more. The lights come up slowly, just barely enough to see the contents. They’re surrounded by dozens of boxes of Teddy Ruxpin bears.

“Oy, hands off the suit!” Crowley snaps when they land, shaking his arm free of Cas’s hold. “Feathers, what are you doing?”

“You can’t be here,” Castiel hisses. “What part of that wasn’t clear? I don’t even know how you’re entering the store.”

“There’s big doors. Clearly marked. Not that hard,” Crowley shoots back.

“Yeah. That no one should be able to use except Gabriel.”

“What the hell is this place? I thought I was headed for oblivion, peaceful nothingness after years of dealing with you idiots. Instead, a bloody parking lot and a giant box store.”

“God’s plan, for what it’s worth,” Cas snorts. “Guess he wanted us to learn some people skills or something.” His eyes skip over Crowley to focus on one of the boxes.

“In an empty Walmart?” Crowley scoffs. “You don’t need people skills anyway. You’ve plenty.”

Castiel shrugs. “He… didn’t ask me.”

He raises an eyebrow before leaning against one of the stacks of boxes. “So we’re going to hide here until... what exactly?”

“ _You_ are going to stay here. I have a shift to finish.” Castiel snaps before closing his eyes. “That was uncalled for.”

“What is with you people and confining me to a small, dark room?” He asks, exasperatedly.

Castiel does actually look apologetic. “I just… I don’t know where else for you to hide. Gabriel will smite you on the spot if he sees you, Raphael the same. I don’t…” For a brief moment, Crowley is certain he’s going to cry. “I don’t regret the choices I made while on Earth. But I have no more friends here than you do.”

Crowley looks around the room again. It’s not that it feels lived in -- Cas clearly doesn’t need to sleep or eat, not if he’s fully mojo’d up -- but there’s something… It feels familiar, like Castiel’s room at the bunker. They’re in his space, claimed and held by him alone.

Nodding, he lets himself sink down onto one of the boxes. “I certainly have no interest in being smote. Get back out there then.”

 

* * *

 

Walmart doesn’t have a consciousness. It’s a barely animate puff of will.

The newest angel has been a problem since it appeared, landing with ripples of fear and discontent. The others are avoiding it, snapping when they can’t. It’s failing its primary purposes.

Then it makes contact with the blight and things get so much worse. More discontent, more fear, more action. At least they’re together, making it easy to solve the problem.

It takes time to bud the room into its own dimension and feels like something is being lost the entire time. But they’re sealed into a pocket, away from the others, and where they can do no harm. The talking teddy bears will be missed, but it’s an acceptable loss if it means the angel and blight are gone.

Maybe there is a new distraction to be found.

 

* * *

 

Sam and the kid have gone, Dean’s not sure where. They probably told him, that’s something Sam does, but he doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t know a lot of things anymore.

Blearily, he blinks up at the ceiling, watching the brush patterns swirl and merge before separating. They might have protective sigils in them -- he thinks he would have done that if he was building the place -- but it never occurs to him to check until he’s drunk and staring up at them.

Right now, he’s regrettably sober with nothing to show for it.

That, at least, is something he can fix. Pushing himself to his feet, Dean staggers to the showers and then, he thinks, towards the kitchen. But the hallway curves the wrong way and he’s certain that it’s leading him down and deeper into the hill and--

He _knows_ he’s never seen these room numbers before, not in nearly five years of wandering the halls. Briefly, he leans against the walls, soaking up warmth. That’s not normal either-- normally the walls are as chill as the floors, as a grave. But these are warm to the touch.

It feels like a hug, or as close as concrete and tile can get.

He should be alarmed, should be freaking out that a random hallway appeared. But alarm is a distant numb thing, locked behind infinite losses. If the bunker eats him, then maybe he’ll stop hurting.

The Empty was supposed to be a threat, when Billie spoke of it. No Heaven, no Hell, just… nothingness.

Dean craves it. He’s been so tired for so long.

 

* * *

 

The door doesn’t budge when Castiel tries to open it. He pulls on it harder, jiggling the handle. Nothing happens.

“What’s happening over there?” Crowley calls from behind a line of boxes.

Castiel tilts his head, glaring at the door knob. “It won’t open.” Rearing back, he kicks at the door, trying to break out the latch. He’s had better luck trying to kick down a brick wall.

“So fly out. You got us in here.” Crowley turns the corner around one of the piles, expectation written across his face.

“You could just as easily teleport out,” Cas snaps.

“I’m under house arrest.” Crowley sneers, but not quite fast enough to hide the split second of loss. Castiel watches as Crowley buttons his jacket, fingers catching on some sort of tear before he resettles it.

The material is dull around it, just slightly discolored. He stares at it for a moment before guiltily tearing his eyes away and meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I--”

“Find a way out, Feathers,” he growls, before stalking back around the corner.

Castiel watches his retreating back before turning back to the door. Closing his eyes, he stretches out his wings and tries to fly out. Nothing happens. There’s nowhere for him to fly.

Spinning around, he stalks to the corner where Crowley has retreated. Grabbing his tie, Castiel pulls him close. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“You flew us in here,” Crowley points out, prying his tie out of Castiel’s grasp. “I had no intention of ever getting somewhere dark and quiet with you.”

“You are such an _ass_.” Castiel steps back. “I will never understand what--” He cuts himself off, but it’s too late. He squares his shoulders, waiting for whatever hit Crowley will come back with.

Instead, he just stares at him for a moment before turning away. “If that’s what gets your jollies.”

They both fall silent.

There’s no way to determine the passage of time. It’s an endless repetition of trying to open the door, staring at Crowley, wondering how he managed to screw things up, and kicking at the door some more. He has no idea what Crowley does. He never moves far from the corner he’s claimed as his own, but there’s a limit to the attractions of a talking teddy bear, even if he does occasionally hear the bear quietly talking.

 

* * *

 

The bunker does have a consciousness. The Winchesters don’t know it’s there, although it thinks Dean suspects sometimes, but it’s been awake and working for longer than the humans have been alive, longer than the red one has been alive. Almost as long as the bright one.

The bunker keeps track of alternate dimensions purely out of self-defense. Its parent or cousin might wake and it needs to know to defend itself. The sudden budding of a new dimension, tiny and barely capable of sustaining life is alarming indeed.

It watches, the walls that form its body growing warm in concentration, new hallways and rooms springing up and collapsing. It can’t spare the attention to keep Dean away from the gun range, from the boiler room, from the places he shouldn’t be, but whenever it tears itself away to check, he’s in the same four rooms as he normally haunts.

Maybe it doesn’t actually need to keep such a close watch on him, even though Sam and the new one are gone, missing.

The new dimension is separated from its parent.

Gently, the bunker reaches out a tendril to investigate it before pulling back in shock.

The red one and the bright one are in there.

Not duplicates, not fabrications. Its people, claimed and marked, in a bubble smaller than some of the bunker’s rooms.

It reaches out again, first one tendril, then several more, slowly towing the bubble in the between spaces until it’s close enough to anchor. It’s simple work to tear between them and form a doorway, make a new hall to ease the transition, tie everything together.

Then it relaxes, returns the hallways to something approaching what the Winchesters are used to, and sleeps.

 

* * *

 

There’s only so much time he can spend with a stupid bear from the 80’s as a conversational partner. He has the stories memorized within a few repeats, the music in even less time. He tries to change the recordings to something more interesting, even audio recordings of those ghastly Supernatural novels. Anything is better than yet another trip on the airship.

Nothing.

He might as well be human.

“I would have thought you’d be bored of those by now,” Cas says over his shoulder.

“And I would have thought you’d be done with trying to kick down an unbreakable door by now.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” Cas pulls a box over to sit. “This whole… experience. I just wanted a win, to accomplish something. Instead, you died, I died, I can only assume Kelly died.”

“She was dead from the moment she took him to bed.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Even if the birth didn’t kill her, Lucifer will so his spawn’s loyalties aren’t divided.” It hangs in the air, waiting. “Bloody stupid, it was.”

Castiel shakes his head. “We didn’t-- There wasn’t much time. What there was, I wasted.”

“We both wasted it. We wasted Dean.” And he’s never going to get another chance. Castiel will, he’s sure. But he’s here, even if here is a very small room that is growing smaller all the time.

Castiel is staring at him. “What?”

Cas shakes his head and looks away, picking up the bear Crowley has been playing with. “Is there a reason this room is filled with this toy? It is rather out of date and--” There’s a small click as the cassette tape in the doll ejects. “I never saw a player outside of the Impala,” he says quietly, reaching up to touch his shirt pocket.

Crowley huffs. “No one outside of Squirrel has used one in twenty years. It doesn’t surprise me.” Leaning back, he closes his eyes.

The opening chords of _Ramble On_ catch him by surprise, popping his eyes open. “Where did you get that?”

Cas shakes his head, running his fingers over the plush fur on the bear’s head. “It was a… gift. I still don’t know why he gave it to me though, or why he wouldn’t take it back.”

“You still have no idea how Dean works. Play the tape, see if you can work it out.”

The tape is pretty much exactly what he would expect Dean to put together for Cas, probably even while convincing himself that it was for Castiel’s own good. His favorite songs, organized by album.

It’s nothing like the four one-hit wonders he was subjected to for six weeks. He still doesn’t know whether Dean picked those songs because he really lost all taste while a demon (which, while likely, is also insulting, so he tries not to think about it) or if he picked them solely for their earworm capabilities.

It could easily be either.

_Going to California_ transitions to _Since I’ve Been Loving You_ and Crowley’s had enough. Stepping around the angel, he moves to the door, trying to find a way out of here.

The door knob turns easily in his hand, opening towards him. “Oy, Castiel. C’mere.”

Cas appears at his shoulder almost immediately, peering out the open door with the same dumbfounded look that Crowley feels. “Is that--?”

“You saw more of the hallways than I did. I spent most of my time locked in the dungeon, remember?”

Cas turns to look at him, stricken. “What did Dean do?”

It catches Crowley off guard for a moment. “He wouldn’t--” and then cutting himself off when he realizes Dean would. He has a history of doing stupid things to get his loved ones back from the grave. If he’s willing to sell his soul for Sam, turn himself into a bomb for everyone, what would he do for Cas?

His fingers catch on the hole again when he tries to settle his jacket. Gritting his teeth, he ignores it, pulling the door open further. “Let’s find him and ask.”

 

* * *

 

The blaring alarms have him on his feet and running towards the control room before his brain completely comes online, angel blade in one hand, pistol in the other. They cut off abruptly before he gets halfway there.

Fearing the worst, Dean shoves the angel blade through his belt, and stops running. If the Dicks of Letters are back, he needs to at least get word out to Sam. Can’t let him walk into a trap, not with the kid in tow. Spawn of Satan or not, the Brits having control over him won’t lead to anything good.

There’s no one in the control room, everything is exactly how they normally have it set. He takes a few moments to look at the wards before deciding to power everything up. It’s not like they have demonic or witch allies left to pay them a visit. Sam can get in just fine, and well, if no one else can, well, that’s just an accident.

Completing the necessary sigils, Dean watches them flare to life. The demonic one flares a bit brighter a couple times, but it does that sometimes. Patting the console, he whispers, “Yeah, I miss him too,” before silently heading towards the war room and public areas.

There’s no one there, and no indication that anyone has entered the bunker at all. Quietly, he completes a circuit of the main rooms before shaking his head. A nightmare then. It’s not the first time he’s woken up thinking the alarms were going off.

Dean rubs a hand across his face before doubling back to the kitchen. He has no idea when he last ate. Maybe that will help. It normally does.

The bread is a solid blue-green block of mold, but the peanut butter still looks okay once he stirs it back together. He pushes the jar back into the cupboard and tosses the spoon into the sink with the coffee cups and whiskey glasses. He’ll take care of it later. Or Sam will. One or the other.

The floor lurches when he heads back to his room, intent on finding his last bottle and drowning in it. He… doesn’t think he’s still drunk. He feels far more sober than he has in a long time.

There’s a corridor he’s never seen before just beyond his room. He’s gotten used to that, somewhat, over the past couple of days -- hallways showing up randomly and disappearing just as randomly -- but this is the first one near the living spaces.

Walking down it is probably a mistake, especially since his self-preservation instinct burned in Washington. He does it anyway.

It’s tiled the same as the others, bare concrete floor that steps down every so often as the corridor curves. It doesn’t seem right, he should have hit one of the other rooms by now, but it just keeps going. Warmer than the common areas too, same as the other day.

The door at the end of the hall swings open just as he spots it, the doorway stays empty for a moment before filling with familiar forms.

He opens fire before he thinks about it. Whoever it is, whatever it is, doesn’t deserve a chance, not when it’s showing up as Cas and Crowley, not when he’s in his own home. They don’t deserve a fighting chance.

The one masquerading as Crowley pulls wanna-be Cas to the side before the bullet can hit.

“Squirrel, can we talk about this?” Not-Crowley steps out of the door way’s protective shadow, hands spread.

The accent is perfect, the cadence, all of it. “Stop looking like him, dammit.” His eyes fill with tears, blurring his vision. They look just like them, because he’s not suffered enough. “Stop right there, or I swear, I will fucking end not just you, but your entire goddamn race.”

“I already offered to lock them away. What more do you want?”

“What’s next, you gonna impersonate Sam now, rehash last week’s argument again? I’m not enough--”

“Dean.” The Cas-a-like takes a few steps to the side, enough that he can’t cover them both. “It’s really us.”

“No, it’s not. It can’t be.” His arms are shaking, he’s not going to be able to hit anything. “I burned you. There wasn’t…” Swallowing, Dean gestures towards the other one. “There was nothing left of him to burn, or I would have burned him too.”

“Dean--”

“No.” He cuts Crowley off. “You sick fucks. No. Is this… This is going to be how you get your revenge? Coming back as them?” He can’t look at them anymore. He sinks to his knees, all the fight leaving. “No. Wear any other face, _please_. Not them.”

 

* * *

 

Carefully, Castiel moves towards Dean, looking towards Crowley. “Dean, we’re not shifters. Or revenants, or anything else. It’s us, me and Crowley.”

Dean stays silent, shaking his head frantically.

Crowley stays further away, gesturing for Castiel to get closer. When he’s an arm length away, Castiel puts a hand out, softly touches Dean’s shoulder.

Dean flinches away, whispering brokenly, “Please don’t. Not there. Just kill me and be done with it.”

Crowley laughs, a dry humorless thing, when Cas meets his eyes. “Open your eyes, Dean. Let’s go take a howl at the moon.”

With a scream, Dean explodes forward, launching himself at Crowley while Cas stands helpless to the side. “How the fuck did you even?”

Castiel almost misses the glint of actual fear in Crowley’s eyes when Dean pushes Crowley against the wall, grabbing hold of his ear and pulling. He doesn’t know if Dean’s forgotten him or if he’s just been deemed a lesser threat, but...

He pulls Dean off Crowley, pushing him face first into the wall. “Dean, _we’re not shifters_. What will it take to prove it to you?”

Crowley is halfway down the hallway before Dean forces “Silver” out of his mouth.

Once he’s around the bend and out of sight, he lets Dean loose. From this close, he can see the bruises under Dean’s eyes, the stubble, how he shakes, from cold or something else he can’t tell.

Dean’s silent for a moment, watching Cas warily. When he doesn’t make any movement towards him, he slides down the wall. “I don’t--” Swallowing, he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

Cas settles on the floor across from him. “I listened to your tape,” he admits. “In a teddy bear that I believe fully encompasses the use of ‘creepy’ as a descriptor.”

A smile flickers across Dean’s face when he uses air quotes. “What’d you think?”

“The guitar work was excellent, as were the allusions to Tolkien's work. The singer does seem to be rather impressed with his own sexual prowess though.”

Crowley returns before Dean can do more than sputter. “Silver, iron, holy water. I couldn’t find the angel blade you keep in your drawer. I assume it’s because you have it on you,” he says brusquely.

They push to their feet, standing in an awkward knot in the center of the hallway. Shrugging out of his jackets, Cas rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Separate cuts for the silver and iron, holy water spilled over both with no reaction. Holding out his hand for Dean’s angel blade, he winces.

For a moment, it looks like Dean is going to volunteer to cut him before he shakes himself and hands the blade over.

The nick on the heel of his hand burns, but is deep enough to let his grace show through. He’s glad to see it -- he’d been wondering -- but the blue-white glare just brings back all the memories of the times he failed.

Dean stares at him, disbelieving. “Cas?” It sounds so small and hesitant. “Crowley?”

“That’s what we’ve been saying,” Crowley snaps.

“ _How?_ ”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one with a history of making deals.”

“Hey, we’re all prone to that one.” Dean shakes his head. “Not this time. I…” Running a hand through his hair, he turns away, shoulders slumping. “I would have. But I didn’t know where to start.”

“Sam? Or the spawn?” Crowley asks.

Cas takes possession of the holy water and angel blade from Crowley. “I don’t think Jack would know how, Sam certainly wouldn’t.” He looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “It can wait, I think.” He carefully herds them back towards the main part of the bunker.

Crowley looks over at Dean when they’re down the hallway a bit. “When was the last time you showered anyway? Squirrel, was not to be taken as life advice.”

Dean’s face falls for a split second before he runs a hand through his hair. Now that Castiel is paying attention, he can tell that it’s greasy, the stubble ill kept. “Uh--” He tries to count on his fingers before giving up. “It’s, uh, been a while.”

Cas smiles behind them where they can’t see, before sliding to Dean’s side. “I’ll make a pot of coffee while you do that.”

Dean looks up like he wants to say something, but closes his mouth before he does. Nodding, he breaks away from them and turns the corner back to his room.

Stepping from one corridor to the other, Castiel stumbles, lurching into Crowley. There’s a moment of disorientation before things right themselves. “Did you…?”

Crowley nods, his brow furrowed. “The bunker itself maybe?” Turning, he looks back down the corridor they came from. “I don’t remember Dean’s room having a hallway next to it.”

Castiel looks up and down the hall, watching Dean’s door. “It doesn’t,” he says flatly. “But the bunker gains and loses hallways and rooms as it pleases. I don’t think Sam or Dean has ever noticed.”

“Could it have--”

“No idea, but we should probably assume it did. Unless we come up with a better option.”

Crowley grimaces, but turns back towards Dean’s room. “Shouldn’t he have come out by now?”

 

* * *

 

He does not run or rush. He walks quickly and with purpose, feeling the uneven wear of his shoes with every step, Cas next to him. Even so, he half expects the worst when he pushes open Dean’s door.

It’s a disaster, like a tornado has blown through, tossing most of Dean’s belongings to the floor and depositing beer bottles over every flat surface.

Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at something in his hands. Bewildered, they stumble to a stop in the doorway, waiting for Dean to acknowledge them. Several long moments pass before Crowley pushes into the room without invitation.

Cas pushes past him, sitting next to Dean and wrapping his arms around him. “Dean?”

Blinking, Dean sits up, shrugging out of Cas’s loose hold. “Yeah, Cas. Just give me a moment.”

Crowley meets Cas’s eyes and raises an eyebrow. Nodding subtly, Cas turns towards Dean. “You’re unhappy.”

“I’m fine, Cas. I’ll get cleaned up and make coffee.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley pushes into the room and drops onto the bed on the other side of Dean, so he’s sandwiched between him and Cas. “The unshowered lumberjack look works for you. Don’t change it on our account.”

Dean snorts before falling silent again. “I never thought I’d see you again. Either of you.” He lets the scrap of fabric he’d been fiddling with float to the floor. “And now you’re here and I’m--”

Oh, fuck this. Crowley pulls Dean towards him, taking advantage of Dean’s distraction.

It’s been nearly three years since the last time he kissed Dean. He thought he’d remembered the taste of him perfectly -- cheap beer and fried food overlaying something that was uniquely _Dean_ \-- but either the beer hid more than he thought or he’s forgotten.

It’s also disgusting, Dean’s not brushed his teeth since the last time he showered.

Dean moans almost silently, a breathless exhale, before he pulls back. “Wait. I…”

Hurt, Crowley releases him immediately, leans away. He doesn’t expect the hand that covers his knee, nor the twin he can see out of the corner of his eye on Cas’s knee.

Dean squeezes, drawing his attention. “Stop that.” Swallowing, he looks between them both. “I won’t, can’t, leave one of you behind again. Can you guys be okay with that?”

Leaning back, Crowley meets Castiel’s eyes before shrugging. “Angel?”

Castiel inhales sharply before leaning back and towards Crowley.

Kissing Cas is nothing like kissing Dean. Cas’s mouth doesn’t taste like warm beer and socks for one. He’s clean and tastes like nothing but himself, with maybe a hint of holy fire.

It could be one of his new favorite things.

Cas looks thoughtful when they separate, tilting his head to the side before sitting up. “I think we can make it work.”

Dean looks between them again before nodding, “Makes things easier, I guess.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Castiel reaches a hand out to both of them. “Shower. Coffee?”

Crowley pushes himself to his feet, briefly leaning into Cas’s side before stepping away. “If you’ve not showered, you’ve also not eaten.” Snapping his finger, he teleports away. As much as he loves the idea of picking up one of his favorites, he finds himself standing in line at one of the bars from three years ago, the one with the least objectionable fries.

(If it’s also the one he went to when he was missing Dean the most, that’s no one’s business but his own.)

The waitress recognizes him. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Thought you’d finally moved on.”

He puts on his most charming smile. “No, just trying to keep the world from ending.”

“Where’s that partner of yours?” Her voice drops, quiet enough to keep from being overheard. “You didn’t break up or anything, did you? You were looking kinda rough last time you were in.”

He feels his smile turn into a grimace at the reminder. “It’s… complicated. But he’s home sick.”

She pats his arm before turning away to deal with another customer, sliding his normal daiquiri across the bar to him while he waits.

He sips it while waiting, sliding double the cost of the bill across the bar when she hands him the brown takeout bag.

 

* * *

 

Cas doesn’t leave him alone, even when he’s stripping down to shower. They’re right, he does reek of sweat and desperation and booze, but he never…

Dean cuts off the train of thought before it goes much further.

“So how was it, the empty or whatever?” he calls over the roar of the shower.

Cas watches, over the half wall. “It was--” he trails off. “It was tedious,” he finally decides.

Dean has his eyes closed, scrubbing the nice shampoo through his hair, when he backs into another person. “Wha-?”

“Shh, Dean. It’s me.”

He can barely hear Cas over the shower, but he drops his hands when another pair starts massaging his scalp. He leans his head back, into the touch, and groans. “Cas…”

The hands turn him around to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Opening his eyes, Dean lets Cas take control, rinsing off the soap before dragging him closer.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

They kiss quietly, the spray of the water hitting them from the waist down. Dean knew kissing Cas would be like this, would feel like the fulfillment of nearly a decade’s worth of promises. He’s not sure he’s worthy of those promises at the moment, and the last week keeps trying to drag him down, but, for right now…

He relaxes into Cas’s hold until the soap is washed away.

Dean thinks about putting on proper clothes when they head back to his room. He really does. After days of being in his jeans and boots, he wants to revel in something soft.

Cas follows his lead, carefully folding his coat of the desk chair, his suit jacket on a hanger into the closet. Looking at the bed, Cas frowns before shaking his head. “We’ll need to do something about the bed. If you’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. Do you think I would just say something?” He pulls his robe around him tighter, knotting the belt almost too tight. He can feel the bubble of happiness he’s floating in wobble so he backtracks. “What did you have in mind for the bed?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll need to discuss it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean turns and leaves the room, heading towards the kitchen.

Tension he didn’t realize he was holding leaks out when Cas hurries to catch up and slides his hand to Dean’s. Seeing Crowley in the kitchen, a bag of take out on the table while he pokes the coffee maker into submission, helps with the rest.

He catches the fond look Cas gives Crowley before pulling down a few coffee mugs, careful touches where they’re unsure of each other.

Crowley’s jacket is folded over the edge of the table. That, more than anything, is a sign that Crowley is planning on staying. The only times Dean’s seen him in less than his full suit is when they were stripping down.

The jacket looks worse for wear anyway and Dean spares a moment’s thought for his wardrobe. Picking it up so he can move it, Dean spots the massive tear, the familiar dullness to the fabric around the hole. His hand spasms, dropping it to the floor. “I don’t… I can’t…”

“All you need to do, darling, is eat the burger on the table and drink some coffee. I’ll worry about my suit.”

“Crowley, I can’t… I got you _killed_. I got both of you killed.”

“We got over it.” Cas soothes from next to him. “And we’ll deal with that later.”

Crowley shoves a cup of coffee towards him. “I’ve been thinking it’s time for a new look anyway. Not like you lot appreciate a good suit.”

Dean meets Cas’s eyes and waggles his eyebrows. “I think we appreciate it just fine. It just might not be practical when you’re around here.” He could swear that Crowley blushes. Blowing him a kiss, Dean pulls the burger towards himself and pushes half the fries between the two of them. “If I’m eating, you’re eating.”

He’s silent while eating. Crowley and Cas pick up the slack, chatting amiably about whatever strikes their fancy. Dean relaxes into the chatter, choosing to ignore the specifics in favor of the generalities: they’re here, they’re safe, they’re with him.

After dinner, Dean grabs Crowley’s jacket before he can protest. Taking it to the sink, he carefully rinses out the blood and dust, fingering the fragile edges. “I think we can fix it. It won’t be the same, but--”

“I’m not the same, why should it be?”

Dean nods. He knows that any repair he makes won’t be good enough, the entire suit will probably disappear overnight and never be seen again, but he has to do _something_.

They came back to him, this is the least he can do.

 

* * *

 

Watching Dean take tiny stitches around the tear, Crowley has no idea what he’s feeling. Gratitude is such an unfamiliar emotion, but he thinks that it’s the closest fit.

Dean yawns less than five minutes into the mending. Crowley watches for a couple minutes before standing. It’ll still be here in the morning, _he’ll_ still be here in the morning.

He doesn’t want to think about it right now. Far easier to work with Castiel to get the kitchen clean, before carefully pulling the jacket from Dean’s hands and heading back to Dean’s room. Cas pushes ahead, planning something.

Dean swings the door to his room open and--

Oh.

Cas has doubled the size of the bed, making it big enough that all three of them can comfortably fit, with enough pillows for even Crowley’s hedonistic tastes. Dean’s smile is adorable, a bright thing that Crowley can’t help but mirror.

Dean closes the door firmly behind them, shedding his robe and hanging it up. By the time he turns around, his face has fallen. “You don’t have…”

“Shut up, Dean.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, we do. And we want to.”

Castiel runs a hand through his hair, looking equally unsure. “I don’t know what the protocol is for this.”

“Lose the clothes, Cas.” Dean looks sturdier with someone to guide. “Actually, new rule. No clothes allowed in bed if there’s more than one person in it.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow before slowly stripping out of his clothes. “No clothes allowed in the bed. There are better things to do.”

Cas snorts, dropping his pants and climbing into the center of the bed. “Not tonight though.”

Dean yawns again before prodding Cas to one side and claiming the center spot for himself. “Sure thing. We’ll figure out how to handle the rest later.”

He watches, for probably longer than he should, as they get comfortable and cuddle together. Dean’s out within minutes, but he keeps waiting. He’s not…

“Crowley, come to bed,” Cas says quietly, trying to avoid waking Dean up. “But get the light first.”

It only takes a moment to shed his shirt and pants. “Bossy.”

“And you like it.”

“Both of you,” Dean complains, muffled by his pillow, “shut up and go the fuck to sleep.”

“As you wish.” Crowley can hear the smirk in Castiel’s voice, a level of smugness he’s not heard in a long time.

“Did you just _Princess Bride_ us, Feathers?” Crowley asks while climbing into bed.

Dean rolls over to face Crowley and kisses him firmly. “He did, you know it, I know it, he knows it.”

“Just checking!” He smirks against Dean’s lips, feeling another hand quest over Dean’s hip. He intertwines their fingers and closes his eyes. Morning will come soon enough.

But at least this eternity comes with stores other than Walmart.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, when Sam and Jack open the door to the bunker, they are bowled over by 115 pounds of invisible dog. They hear her bounding through the bunker, a single ear-blasting bark, and then nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> More than any other fic I've written, this one has been an example of "it takes a village." From [Foop](http://formidablepassion.tumblr.com/) and [Thayer](https://thayerkerbasy.tumblr.com/) playing alpha readers to the entire Mediocre Meta crew for helping me come up with various tidbits (including allowing me to pick their brains for how to make a mixtape and Teddy Ruxpin) to [SolsticeKitten](http://solsticekitten.tumblr.com/) dropping everything to beta this for me... this isn't just mine. 
> 
> Thanks guys (and gals. and persons)
> 
> If you want more Crowley, Dean, and Juliet, you should totally check out [Thayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy) and [Hekate1308](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308/works?fandom_id=27)'s stories on here.


End file.
